Stress Test
by janiejanine
Summary: Isabela flirts with Hawke, and Anders' long-held self-control finally snaps. Rated M for smut and language.


Hawke winds her way through the fetid Darktown tunnels, barely noticing the slime and the stink. Daydreams intrude on her thoughts, and she's not really paying attention, but she doesn't need to. These twisting passageways are engraved in her memory.

She checks the makeshift bandage tied around her arm. The other nicks and scrapes she can handle, but her last encounter with Lowtown's criminal element left her with a nasty gash that could use professional attention. Not the kind of attention she _wants_, but she'll take what she can get. Not that she's desperate or anything.

She flings open the clinic door and crashes face-first into Isabela, knocking herself backwards. Isabela is nimbler; she manages to not only keep her feet, but catch Hawke in one graceful, flamboyant movement.

"Careful there, sweet thing," she says. She sets Hawke back on her feet and looks her over. "You look like you got dragged through a sewer."

"I did. That's why I'm here," Hawke replies, trying and failing to brush off some dust.

"Well, once Sparklefingers gets done with you, let me know if you want any help cleaning up," Isabela says with a wink, then sashays out the door.

Despite the ache in her arm, Hawke can't suppress a smile when she sees Anders. Merrill once told her that she lit up like a beacon when he was around, and after she'd finished cringing in embarrassment, she'd had to admit that it was probably true.

He looks tense, even more so than usual; he often looks harried, circles under his eyes and hair falling askew, but today the set of his jaw has a new tautness to it.

"Is this a bad time?" she asks.

He shakes his head as if to clear it. "No, of course not. Come here."

She rolls up her slashed sleeve, and his hand flares blue.

Maker, she loves his hands. They're so elegant, so confident. Those long fingers know exactly what to do, and as she watches them play over her arm like an artist's over a canvas, she can't help but imagine what they could accomplish if only they'd venture somewhere more intimate. If she could only manage to get him to stop pushing her away...if she could convince him that he wasn't a danger to her...she'd throw him down on the bed and ride him like a-

"Hawke?"

She starts and looks up. "Huh?"

"It looked like you were drifting off a bit."

"Sorry." She focuses on his face instead. His eyes are such a beautiful honey brown. And his lips are so mobile, so quick to smirk, to frown, to be bitten oh-so-sensually in thought-

"Hawke!"

"Sorry!" She tears her gaze away from him and stares at the ceiling. It's grimy and hideous, but at least it isn't sending all the blood rushing to her nether regions. "What were you saying?"

"I was asking how this happened."

"I interrupted a mugging. It wasn't bad. This probably would have healed on its own, but..." _But __I __wanted __you __to __touch __me. __I __am __pathetic._

"Your good deeds are going to get you in trouble someday."

She smirks. "I like trouble. Besides, you're one to talk."

"I know. Doesn't stop me worrying about you." He wipes the blood from around the vanished cut with a piece of cloth. "There."

His fingers linger on her arm, making her skin tingle and her mouth go dry. She shrugs, feigning nonchalance. "You don't have to worry about me."

"I know. I just..."

"Just what?"

"I just...I don't know what I'd do if anything happened to you." He pulls his hand back and clears his throat. "If Meredith knew what you get up to she'd have your head."

"I'm not afraid of her."

"I know."

There's a pause. The very air seems charged and he's still so close she can breathe in the earthy scent of his skin. It's as familiar as home and it makes her heart skip.

She shifts awkwardly. "Um. I should..."

He looks her in the eye, expression unreadable, and mutters something that sounds like _fuck __it_ before grabbing her by the waist and kissing her.

Years of lust, jealousy, waiting, wanting are in that kiss. His lips are warm against hers and she barely has time to think _finally_ before she feels his tongue sweep across her lower lip.

The rough stone of the wall is against her back and Anders' hands are everywhere, running intimately up her sides to cup her face, the back of her neck. She finds the tie holding his hair back and tugs until his hair falls around his face and she can bury her fingers in it.

He lifts the hem of her robes in one fluid motion and his hands skim over her thighs. _He's __too __good __at __that_, she notes, but then he finds the waistband of her smallclothes and pulls them down, and she files that thought away under _nonessentials_.

His leg is between hers, and she's sure he can feel how wet she is even through his trousers. The pressure of his thigh against her sex is so intense she sees sparks behind her eyelids. _He's __wearing __too __many __clothes. _She reaches down and fumbles with his laces, coaxing his length into the open air; it's stiff as a mast and he inhales sharply as she gives him an experimental stroke.

With a wordless growl he catches both of her hands and pins them above her head. The way he's desperately sucking and biting at her neck makes her shiver and is sure to leave marks. It doesn't matter. She's his anyway, always has been, so she might as well have the physical proof.

Maybe it's not the most opportune time, but she has to ask. "Why now?" She wraps one leg around his waist, spreading herself open for him.

He pauses for just a moment, looking down at her, searching her face with darkened eyes. "I saw you with Isabela." He slides a finger inside her, giving a low hum of approval when he feels her tightness. "The thought of her touching you, her mouth on you..." Another finger. There's a delicious burn as she stretches to accommodate him and he works her until words have fled and all she can manage are incoherent pleas.

"Please...I need..." She grinds herself against his hand.

He tugs at her earlobe with his teeth and whispers urgently. "I can't sleep. Every night I lie awake, thinking about you, all the things I want to do to you. How I'd make you beg. Bend you over the table. Lick you until you screamed." He removes his fingers and she lets out a little whine.

Finally, he pushes into her in one long, hard stroke. "Oh, shit," she gasps.

Voice rough with need, he demands "Do you think about me?"

"Always," she says, the words stuttering between moans and whimpers as he moves. "It's always you, your fingers, your tongue, your cock. Fucking me just like this."

Anders growls and thrusts into her, hard. She can't hold back her cry of pleasure as he hits the _perfect_ spot and she tightens around him. And oh Maker, he just keeps thrusting into that place and she can't speak, can only make low guttural moans that she can't believe are coming from _her_. Head thrown back, she stops trying to think and concentrates on the slide of his skin against hers.

He grips her hips hard enough to bruise as he pounds into her, and she clenches around him, thoughts reduced to _don't __stop __don't __stop __don't __stop_. She bites his shoulder as she comes hard, followed moments later by his groan as he spills into her.

She leans back against the wall, panting. He rests his forehead against hers, and she runs a hand up his chest, stroking the sweat-slicked skin, pulling him in for a kiss.

After a moment, she feels him stir and stiffen inside her. Her eyes go wide.

"Grey Warden stamina, sweetheart," he murmurs against her lips.

"Oh, " she whispers. "Oh. _Oh_," as he slowly takes up the rhythm again. She's too sensitive, everything is too sensitive, but _oh, __Maker_.

She pulls him close and they rock together, little gasps between long, wet kisses. Soon she's shuddering as deep waves of pleasure roll through her and he's crying out his own release.

It's too much effort to stand. Her legs feel boneless and he's shaking. They slide down to the floor, arms wrapped tight around each other.

She combs her fingers through his hair, golden in the torchlight. "I should apologize for my filthy mouth."

He presses a kiss to the side of her neck. "I love your filthy mouth."

"We'll have to get started on those other things you mentioned."

"Which ones?"

"The table, the licking..."

He grins, a real one, joyous, and it's _devastating_. That smile is rare; it never fails to melt her insides like candle wax. And this time it's just for her. A life spent waiting and watching for that smile would be a life well lived.

"Anything you want," he says. "As soon as I can move again."

"Does that mean you'll come by later?"

He takes her hand and twines his fingers through hers. "Absolutely."


End file.
